


Pan's Revenge

by BryroseA, SilverLining2k6



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Crack, Rated T for language, and violence to pants, goat related shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 17:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2200389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BryroseA/pseuds/BryroseA, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverLining2k6/pseuds/SilverLining2k6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Or, How Logan Echolls Learned To Hate The Color Orange)</p><p>(OR, You Guys, I Wrote A Goat Fic And I Have No Idea Why)</p><p>What exactly <i>was</i> Logan Echolls doing during 1x16: Betty and Veronica? And...is that a <i>goat</i>?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pan's Revenge

**Author's Note:**

> During tumblr's VM Rewatch of Betty & Veronica, **disdainfullady** and I were (of course) lamenting the lack of Logan in the episode. THEN talk turned to how awesome it would have to have Logan in this one, and the comedic possibilities of Logan and the goat. And then…I don’t know. This happened. I strongly suggest checking out [this picture](http://www.vm-caps.com/caps/displayimage.php?album=48&pos=317) of the goat; just to set the tone. 
> 
> This is a giant, un-beta’ed mess and it is easily the oddest thing I have ever written. Goat!fic ahoy!

At 4:45pm, Neptune High’s student parking lot is so empty that Logan half expects to see a tumbleweed blowing by.

After a solid week and a half of missed school for reasons he doesn’t mind copping to—an epic drunken bender once the realization of his mother’s death set in—and reasons he prefers not to discuss with anyone—the necessary healing time for a dislocated shoulder and a hairline fracture of the wrist, if he’d diagnosed correctly—Logan’s teachers had started putting their collective feet down. His after school presence had been requested for several make up tests of the Or Else You’ll Fail variety. _Apparently the Dead Mom sympathy is starting to expire_. _Yippee._

Tests completed in a half-assed manner, and various other make up assignments picked up, Logan strolls back out through the echoing school and into the parking lot, kicking a bottle cap in front of him with every step. The cap skitters across the ground with each blow and Logan follows its meandering path, in no particular hurry to return home.

As first the bottle cap and then Logan round the side of a beat up old hippie van, one of the only other vehicles left in the student lot, Logan is startled to hear a loud banging coming from inside the van and…is that a bell?

 _What the?_ Drawn by the lure of a mystery, Logan abandons the bottle cap and walks around to try to peer through the windows on the side of the van. Haphazardly splashed paint covers most of the glass and he can’t see anything, but the pounding has picked up in pace and is starting to sound purposeful. _Is someone trapped in there?_

As he reaches the rear doors of the van, the sporadic banging begins to intensify into a rhythm. _Crash._ Pause. _Crash._ Pause. It sounds as if something is trying to escape by beating down the door. Unable to stop himself— _just like every dumb blonde in every horror movie ever_ —Logan cautiously approaches the door of the van.

As he stretches out his hand toward the handle, the pounding from inside hits a crescendo and then, without warning, the two hinged halves of the door fly open, sending Logan staggering back a few steps. When he recovers enough to look up, there, framed perfectly in the now open door, is a goat.

_What. The. Fuck._

In fact, Logan notes dazedly, this is not merely a goat; this is a motherfucking rockstar goat. Standing there, head held high, coolly posed in the doorframe, it looks like a member of a hair band awaiting only the wind machines to artistically blow back its tresses before making an entrance.

As Logan looks around for the person responsible for the goat— _surely there must be a goat…handler…person. Right?—_ the animal seems to decide that it has made its impression, because it shakes its head—sending its long, flowing locks flying—and hops nimbly to the asphalt.

_Well, this day has suddenly taken a turn for the unusual._

Logan is maybe twenty yards away from his XTerra. Unfortunately, the goat— _I think I shall call him Reggie_ —is between him and the car. Up to this point, Reggie hasn’t shown any signs of being aggressive—aside from the whole bashing the door down incident— _I’ll just make a move toward my car, walk slowly, and that’ll be that._

Logan steps forward. The goat lowers its horns slightly.

He doesn’t know anything about goats—or any animals, really. His mother bought an alpaca once for about a minute before donating it to a petting zoo, but animals are dumb, right? How difficult could it be to get around one goat? _Maybe you could distract the goat. Offer it food. What the hell do goats eat?_ Logan snorts. _Everything, dumbass._

In fact, the goat _does_ seem to have seen something in particular that has caught its attention. Reggie has fixated—firmly—on Logan’s pants. Logan raises his eyebrows at the slightly lascivious look glazing the animal’s eyes. “Hey buddy, you haven’t even bought me dinner yet.”

When he’d rolled out of bed at 2:30pm, already running late for his afterschool appointments, Logan had grabbed the first outfit that came to hand. In what appears to have been an unfortunate choice, he’d put on his pair of bright orange ripstop cargo pants. Pants he’d brought primarily because Veronica always hated him in orange and he knew they’d annoy her. Pants which he’d then stopped wearing almost entirely after she’d asked him one day where the rest of his chain gang had gone and reminded him not to drop the soap. _Hey, I’m a complex guy. I never said my actions were logical._

But the orange pants were what he’d put his hand on first this afternoon and, although they were a little wrinkly, it hadn’t exactly seemed to matter what he wore to a make-up math test. Now, though, Logan is frantically searching his mind for anything he can remember about goats specifically liking—or hating—the color orange. _Or is that Bulls and red? Christ._

Reggie bleats softly and fixes his beady eyes firmly on the front of Logan’s pants. His long, almost prehensile, tongue darts out to lick across whatever the goat equivalent of a lip is.

In the spirit of gathering evidence, Logan holds out one bright orange clad leg and waggles it. The goat’s head swivels avidly, following the movement. The creature’s air of simpleminded greed puts Logan in mind of a few of his father’s business associates. _It definitely likes the pants._

_Okay then. Enough playing around. Just ease your way around the damn goat. Get in the car. Drive home. Drink a big ass bottle of Scotch. Torch the pants._

Logan takes a few steps to the left. The goat counters.

Logan stops, and then takes a few steps to the right. The goat counters.

In a burst of sudden whimsy, Logan mimes palming an invisible switchblade and crouches down into his best come-at-me-bro stance. “Do ya wanna dance, punk? Huh? Do ya?”

The goat sneers—he swears it actually fucking curls its lip—and releases a _meh-eh-eh-eh_ of utter disdain.

Frustrated, Logan cocks his head, evaluating. The goat cocks its head in return, its expression inscrutable.

_Inscrutable? Get it together Echolls. It’s a motherfucking goat._

With a sudden move, Logan charges directly toward the goat, yelling—“AAAHH!”—and waving his hands in an attempt to frighten the dumb animal.

It doesn’t work.

Reggie charges, horns down and hair flying, directly at Logan. Logan’s attack abruptly becomes a retreat, his battle cry changed into something that sounds, much to his chagrin, more like a high pitched yelp. Frantically pedaling backwards, he trips over the hem of his own pants— _goddamn these pants!_ —and goes sprawling, hitting the blacktop hard enough to scrape his hands and momentarily knock the wind out of him.

The goat continues its advance, a maniacal glint in its eye, as Logan frantically crab-walks backwards.

_Shitshitshitshitshit._

He flips over onto his hands and knees, but just as he goes to push off the ground, the goat’s front hooves step into his line of sight. Slowly. Menacingly. First one hoof, then the other.

_This goat has a better sense of dramatic timing than Dad does._

Logan freezes, hands and knees glued to the asphalt, butt up in the air, his shirt pooling around his down-bent armpits, leaving the tender flesh of his torso bare. _Not good. Not good._

As he slowly tries to rise to a standing position, the goat stretches out its neck and, with darting snap, seizes the waistband of Logan’s pants in the back, where they gape away from his body.

“FUUUUCK!” Logan instinctively stands, yelling and kicking out with one leg at the goat. The animal digs in its hooves, gripping the pants more firmly between its teeth and pulling back, hard.

“Oh my god! Oh fuck! What the fuck!”

Logan is spinning around, wriggling back and forth, trying frantically to loosen the goat’s grip. Finally, there is an ominous ripping sound and the waistband of Logan’s pants starts to give. By this point he is full on screaming (“What the fuck! What the fuck!”)  but no one comes running. He is dimly aware that, later, he will probably be grateful that there is no one around to see him get thoroughly bested by a goat, but for right now he’d take someone—anyone, even mummified old Mme. Whatever—who could help pull the goat off him.

The goat gives another wrench, there is more ripping and Logan can feel cold air and— _OH MY GOD!_ —the goat’s tongue against the bare skin of his upper thigh.

Frantically, Logan starts to undo his fly. _Abandon ship! Abandon ship!_ Unfortunately it’s a rather complicated setup, with a fold over flap like board shorts have, secured with laces and several buttons and a hook and eye in addition to the zipper. _What the fuck kind of national security level dick containment unit was this designer trying to construct? If I wore these pants every day I’d still be a fucking virgin!_  

As his fumbling fingers finally release the last clasp, the goat is actively pulling him backwards by the seat of his now-ruined cargos. Logan struggles to get the pants off over his shoes, flopping around like a demented fish. One leg comes off fairly easily—Reggie immediately reeling in the slack—but the other gets stuck around his ankle for a long torturous minute. Logan flails, red faced and hopping on one leg as random curse words escape him in a steady stream.

Finally free and clad only in his shirt, boxers, socks and shoes, Logan staggers, trying to regain his balance.

Before he can find his footing, the goat swings his pants around its head once, lasso style, and then releases them to fly off behind it as it makes another lunge for— _fuck me!_ —Logan’s orange boxers. _I am never wearing goddamn orange ever again in my goddamn life!_

He lunges away from Reggie’s snapping maw in time to avoid utter annihilation, but the goat’s teeth do manage to snag a fold of the back of his boxers. Logan pulls away instinctively, tearing the thin material off in a flap that exposes his right butt cheek to the warm Southern California air.

The tongue darts out again.

With a yip that could have come straight from a cartoon, Logan leaps into the air and comes down several feet away. He puts on a burst of speed and manages to reach the safety of the XTerra while Reggie munches contentedly on his swatch of orange poly-silk.

His heart racing, Logan presses his partially bare ass against the warm exterior of his car, keeping a weather eye on the goat as he reaches down to his pocket for his—

“WHAT! THE! FUCK!” Logan smacks his head backwards against the glass of the drivers’ side window with each word and looks over helplessly to where his keys presumably reside. Inside the pocket of his ruined pants. On the other side of the world’s most fashion-critical goat.

He releases a half-hysterical laugh. _Isn’t there a good term for hoofed animals? An ungulate. Yeah, this goat is the Lilly Kane of the ungulate world._

Logan takes a deep breath and tries to think this through. He could walk back into the high school and find one of the teachers to help him. He could call Duncan or Dick or any one of his friends to come pick him up. Make the goat into goat roadkill. Logan looks down at himself. _There is no way I’m letting anyone see me like this. Fix this Echolls; you can NOT be bested by a goat!_

Okay. To get past the goat and reclaim his pants he needs a distraction. Preferably something orange. The only thing orange in the near vicinity is—he looks down again— _Goddamit. My boxers._ The remnants of his boxers are still technically covering him, but they’re going to be a total loss. It’s not that he specifically minds sacrificing them, but he doesn’t exactly want to get close to the goat with Little Logan flapping in the breeze.

After a moment of deep breathing to steel himself—a moment in which no other solution magically presents itself—Logan grimly takes off his shirt. Then, in the empty parking lot of Neptune High school, under the watchful eye of a goat, Logan Echolls strips off his ruined boxers, standing momentarily naked except for his shoes and socks. He hastily ties his shirt backwards around his waist, forming a crude sort of loincloth for basic cover.

Dangling his ruined boxers gingerly from one hand he dances carefully closer to the goat.

“Hey! Goat!” The goat looks up, drops the mangled, wet piece of his boxers it had been chowing down on and trots back over to the discarded pants. “Shit! No!” Logan inches closer.

“Look, Reggie, you little mother fucker,” He dangles the boxers enticingly, “Look what I’ve got for you.” Logan waves his boxers like a flag. The loincloth is starting to slip, sweat is pooling in his lower back. The goat continues to ignore his forward progress.

Desperately he takes off one shoe and hurls it in the goat’s direction. “Hey!” He shakes his boxers wildly, “they’re orange!”

The goat’s head whips around at the magic word and it finally fixates on the underwear in Logan’s hand. Reggie leaves the pants and starts to stroll nonchalantly in Logan’s direction, eye firmly on the prize.

“That’s right you dumb bastard,” Logan croons in his best there’s-a-good-boy voice, “C’mere underwear breath.” _This animal has reduced me to Dick Casablancas level insults._

His improvised loincloth slipping and sliding, Logan inches his ways backwards and away from the pants, boxer-bait held in his outstretched arm, the goat following closely.

When he judges that he is far enough away, he sways the boxers back and forth, making sure he has the goat’s full and undivided attention. With a swift prayer to whatever the hell deity looks out for naked boys trying to entice barnyard animals with their underwear, Logan lets the boxers fly. They land about fifteen feet away. The goat tracks their flight and then, finally, mercifully, ambles after them.

In a sudden burst of speed, Logan takes off across the parking lot, grabbing up his goat slobbered pants and running full out back in the opposite direction for the XTerra. About halfway there, his shirt loin cloth comes completely undone and flutters to the ground leaving Logan to streak—fully naked except for one shoe, his socks and a puka shell necklace—to his car. 

He desperately scrabbles for his keys, retrieving them with a whispered “fuck yes” and then nearly dropping them twice before finally jamming them home and reaching the cherished sanctuary of the XTerra’s interior.

Just as he slams the door closed, the goat trots up, clearly perturbed at being deprived of its prize. Reggie lets out a _meh-eh-eh-eh_ of displeasure, a small piece of Logan’s boxers dangling from the corner of its mouth.

Logan pounds on the steering wheel and lets out a whoop of exhilaration at his near escape. He can’t resist tossing the goat the double bird through his window.

The goat lowers his horns and headbuts the car. Not gently.

Still bare ass naked, Logan hastily starts the car and peels out of the parking lot, strongly resisting the urge to run the goat over, though he does rev his engine at it menacingly— _take THAT you goat motherfucker!_ He passes his shoe, his shirt, and the wet shredded scraps that are the remains of his boxers, strewn across the asphalt.

Grinning madly and shaking a little from the adrenaline comedown, Logan guns his way back toward the 09 district and his mansion.

_I really fucking hope I don’t get pulled over._

_Motherfucking goat._

\---------- A coda, by [SilverLining2k6](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverLining2k6/pseuds/SilverLining2k6). ----------

 

In the far corner of the parking lot, Veronica Mars watches the XTerra pull away, lowering the camera she was using to zoom in on the scene.

_Thank you Clemmons, for insisting on the immediate debriefing!_

She sits for a full minute in stunned silence, before returning her jaw to its upright position.  

"Should have listened to me about the orange, Logan," she says with an amused head shake, and then pulls out her cell. 

"Wallace?  About that goat…"


End file.
